


Zhirayr

by Holde_Maid



Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander Imagine Series books, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holde_Maid/pseuds/Holde_Maid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grace has finally decided to start learning how to use a sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saddle Up

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> As per usual, the Highlander universes, characters etc. do not belong to me. I only created the plot and wording of my fanfic, naught else. No copyright infringement is intended and I also make no money through any of my fanfic.
> 
> This character and story in particular were encouragen by and written on the FB page of the Highlander Imagine Series.

The man was nothing but sinewy muscle, Grace Chandler thought. A formidable enemy. She could not take him on. Of course not. She had learned, but she was no challenge for someone like him, no matter how short he was. But right now, he had not drawn a sword or anything. He just stood there, by the old wall surrounding what looked like a medieval village.

The cold ripple of alarm that Immortals instilled in each other ebbed away.

Grace reminded herself that she had always known she was not going to win any Prize in the Gathering, and she had lived to serve humanity much longer that she had ever expected. With the courage that comes with that kind of knowledge, she gathered up her rough woollen skirt and went up to him. 

At a distance of four, five feet, she stopped. Looking him in the eye, she showed him her open, empty hands.   
Faster than a snake, his hand shot forward, yanked her off her balance, and within the second, she lay flat on the stony ground, the stranger on her back. Stones dug into her flesh. 

Was this the end? Or… Oh. The other option had never even occurred to her. No!

But then she realised the man had not lifted her skirt to fulfil her worst fears. He had lifted it to search her for weapons. Now he was looking into her trolley, while sitting on her thighs and holding her hands in an uncomfortable lever hold behind her back. 

Then his weight was gone, she could get up again and gather the things he had strewn on the ground while looking through her luggage. Finally, she could straighten her back and rub her strained tendons. She found him standing in the same spot as before, as if these 20 unpleasant seconds had never elapsed.

She watched him, trying to gauge his stance toward her. She looked at him, then at the opening in the stone wall behind him. At him again. A minute nod, then his gaze left her and came to rest on the distant landscape.

Grance Chandler entered the village.

 

\------------------

 

They were both swift and vicious, but they had come across each other in this confined space with a very limited choice of weapons. Branislav had noticed that his enemy was trying to avoid noise as much as he himself had, so their roles could not be very different. It was not surprising that there was another party trying to get their hands on certain critical documents on this particular night, either. Very likely, they had tapped the same phone-lines ... It didn't matter who "they" were.   
  
The fairly tall man he was fighting dodged and tried to push his fingers into Branislav's eyes. Branislav lifted his chin and tried to bite. To his own surprise, he succeded, so he took the small finger of the hand he'd caught, and pushed and pulled it into a nice comfy lever hold. His opponent grunted angrily, jumped up high and thus escaped the hold with a kick into Branislav's ribs.   
  
The sharp pain and the sudden pressure against the ribs took his breath for a moment. He tumbled back against the wall. But then he pulled himself together and took to a boxing stance. He hit the other man first with a right hook, then... Dang, not at all. The stranger, quick as a snake, had slipped behind him to stay safe from Branislav's attacks. Bransilav's calm, concentrated expression turned into a wolfish grin. He pushed back, caughte the man between his back and the wall. Of course he could have taken the tiny gun he'd spotted in the man's left sock, but he must not be too loud. Not in here, in a walk-in safe that could be sealed from outside, should his presence be suspected.  
  
He landed his elbow somewhere in the soft flesh underneath his enemy's ribs. Being smaller could be a great advantage at times, even though you paid for it in reach. It also was an advantage when you threw someone, because the center of your weight had to be below the center of theirs.   
  
Branislav turned sideways while throwing the man, which added velocity as well as a hefty encounter between the adjoining shelved wall and the stranger's head. It stunned him enough so Branislav could finally gain reasonable control.  
  
The man went very still as soon as Branislav's foot was lodged firmly where it could pop the guy's kneecaps and do serious damage efficiently. He was waiting.   
  
Branislav took his time in making sure that the other had no chance of attacking him. Then he muttered in English, "Who are you?"  
  
"If I told you, I'd be lying, wouldn't I?"  
  
Branislav chuckled. "Fine, let's save some time." He took from his pocked a tiny syringe and injected fluid into the man's upper arm. A few minutes later, he was fast asleep.   
  
Branislav took microfiche photos of the documents he wanted and of the stranger, whom he left sleeping in front of the closed walk-in safe. Let karma decide what became of him.

 

\-----------------

 

Without preamble and, indeed, without even having fully closed the door to her current abode, he told her, “No, I’m not.”  
  
A sudden insight revealed to Grace that he had turned her his back longer than necessary. She couldn’t tell whether that was a show of trust or an attempt to provoke an attack, though. She gave him her most charming smile. “Well, I am. In a way.” She winked.   
  
The short, sinewy man standing by the door had intelligent eyes, and a glimmer of understanding lit them now. “You are here for me as a teacher.” Then they darkened again. “Is that why you are helping my children?”  
  
Grace – or Vesna, as the village knew her – shook her head. “I live to care, I don’t care to live.” Oops, the double meaning had not been intentional. So for clarity, she added with a chuckle, “You see, I embraced my helper syndrome with a vengeance long ago.”  
  
Sudden closeness and a husky voice, “And who cares for you?”   
  
His warmth surrounded her and she leaned into it.   
  
Then he chuckled and stepped back. “You could use a teacher in more than one subject. Think about it.” With a wicked smile and a wink, he was gone.

 

\-----------------

 

Vesna was wiping her hands in a cloth. They were clean, but she obviously was too preoccupied to notice. Or too nervous. Her caramel-brown eyes darted here and there, trying to avoid locking with his, as she approached Branislav.   
  
Yet when their eyes met, there was nothing furtive about her gaze. She was troubled, sad. “I’m afraid I have lost … one of your children.” He noticed a tiny clear drop hanging from her nose. Possibly a tear. Could she be that soft?  
  
“It was pneumonia, wasn’t it, and she was almost 90. Don’t worry, they understand that.”   
  
Something in her stance tightened and brought her vigour back. “Well, it was the pneumonia that caused her death, but it really was the measles that caused the pneumonia. Can you help me persuade them all to get measles shots? You call them your children, after all.”  
  
He laughed. “Oh, that. It’s a nickname, really.” He slowly shook his head. “There was an old man. The eldest of the mortals here. I chastised him about something or other, and he thought for a moment, then said 'Yes, father.' Everbody laughed, and the nickname stuck. So I called them my children in return.” He shrugged. “It’s nothing grander than that.”  
  
“Will you help me, anyway?” Single-minded, wasn’t she? And quite beautiful, inside and out.  
  
Branislav drew a tired hand through his hair. His fingers felt rough and wooden against the skin of his temple. “Of course I will. But you’ll find we’re not all that “behind”. It’s just the elderly who figure they are too old to get children’s diseases. A doctor comes to visit every two weeks. Good man, just … too rare.” He smiled and noticed that a strange sadness was creeping up from his belly and through his lungs.  
  
Vesna leaned against the wall beside him, tiredly looking at the house where she had lost her patient. “If I don’t take up your … offer,” she threw him a brief sideways glance, “will you let me stay, anyway?”  
  
“You mean, will I teach you?”  
  
“No, I mean will you let me stay. The question of teaching is an independent one. I feel needed here.”  
  
“You are needed, and whatever else happens between us, you are free to stay. – Well, actually ... That’s not for me to decide.” His voice was slipping lower and lower in register, he noted. A sign of the subject touching his core more directly than he would have cared to admit.  
  
“And…” She took a deep breath. He was intensely aware of how her body moved, and not just by the habit of the elite fighter he had always been. “Would you teach me?” In a very small voice, as if she were embarrassed to add this, “Please?”  
  
“Can you kill?”   
  
She sighed. “Yes. I think so. I … You see, there were times when I had to leave women in labour to die if the baby had the wrong position and would not let me turn it around. I’ve had to learn to harden my heart.”  
  
He grinned, “You can always picture your opponent as some evil virus. That should help.”  
  
Vesna laughed. More than the joke warranted, really.  
  
Of course he would teach her. There was no way he was passing up the opportunity to woo her. And besides, she was in bad need of a teacher. “You will need a better sword.” Hers was okay, only far too long for her. “Who gave it to you?”  
  
“I bought it.” Oh, dear.   
  
“I’ll get you a proper one. But for the moment, you can use one from my collection. Come on.” He took her to his house. He opened the door to his home for her – and with it, the door to his life. She was worth the risk.

 

\------------------------

 

Branislav's sword sang through the air, cutting up, down, from the bottom left to the top right and back, then from the bottom right to the top left and back, and finally from right to left, and from left to right. The motion had been smooth, economical and correct on the surface, but somehow it would not feel right. Something was off today.   
  
It wasn't the Presence in his work-out room, only a few feet away. That actually felt very right.  
  
Maybe it was the knowledge that, however much he tried, he could not will her to win out in the Game. He suspected she would end up a minor contender, no more.  But no, that only made him sad, not off-balance, so to speak.  
  
Maybe it was just the daunting task of training not only her body, but her mind and soul to fight efficiently. Who knew?  
  
Branislav knew many an Immortal who meditated to center themselves. But for him, there was a more efficient way, and it allowed for company. So he went over, knocked on the door of his private gym and opened it.  
  
The fish-out-of-water expression on Vesna's lovely features was echoed in the way her sweat-absorbent clothing fit her body, but not her air. Using the dumbbells correctly and counting along clearly cost all her concentration. She barely nodded towards him. Branislav smiled in amusement.  
  
He watched her finish the set and collapse to the floor with a groan. "How can you do that every day? It's so hard and yet so boring! And I thought stitching was bad!"  
  
This tickled Branislav to a roaring laugh. _"Gde ti otvore, tamo udji"_ , he thought to himself - this old Serbian adage meaning "Where a door is opened for you, there enter", and rejoined, "Well, next time I'll join you and we'll be chatting, then it won't be so boring. How's that?" Ah, too fast. "Or you can watch a film or listen to some music."  
  
Judging by her look, Vesna seemed to find films distateful and music ... confusing? Or something. "No, no," she hurriedly replied, "do let's have that chat." Then a coy grin crept in. "And maybe a coffee and eclairs?"  
  
Branislav chuckled, "Silly student, you." His tone turned more matter-of-fact. "For now I will free you of these." He indicated the barbells, then motioned toward the door with his head. "Let's go for a ride.  I'll take Vuk, you can have Mita. You'll feel like you are riding on a cloud." He winked.  
  
"Do the names fit their characters?" Vesna inquired. The names were Serbian. Vuk meant "Wolf" and Mita stemmed from the Goddess Demeter or "Mother-Earth".  
  
He grinned. "You'll see. Let's go!"

 

\---------------------

 

Her companion had spoken the truth - Mita was easy to ride, mostly he followed Vuk, but at the same time he was attentive, and his gait a comfortable roll. More like a ship than a cloud, but easily steered. Grace smiled. Normally she would perhaps have enjoyed a little more spirit, but today she was so tired that Mita was perfection.  
  
Zhirayr ... she was still struggling with the correct pronunciation of his name, but she was not going to call him father, especially since his Presence told her she was his senior.   
  
Zhirayr had not spoken since they had left the village. He had changed subtly, though. At the start he had oozed restlessness, and now he seemed at peace.  
  
"Is this where you were born?" she asked.  
  
"No. But it's home to me. This is who I am." He stroked through Vuk's mane. "I was born in the saddle. Well, almost." A shy smile crept into his weather-worn features. "I was taught to kill, bow in hand, feet in the stirrups, as a boy. What I do for a living now is not so very different. Can you deal with that?"  
  
Grace was so stunned she didn't even know how to tell him that his tone and his words did not add up. She barely managed one word, "Explain."  
  
"The Kreml has the KGB, and then some. The Pentagon has the NSA, CIA, and then some. The Mossad is another household name. Each government has its spies and its killers, but sometimes they choose to hire someone from the outside." He seemed nervous. "That would be me. To be honest, I've only recently changed my policy to working only with elected governments. Before that I wasn't so picky." There, the shy smile again.  
"So, am I still the man you want to be your teacher?"  
  
Grace was confused. This felt exactly like being asked for forgiveness. Why? He wasn't even looking down guiltily or searching her eyes. No, he sat in the saddle, comfortable and pensive, fondling Vuk's thick grey mane.   
She wrestled her thoughts away from this puzzle to examine her feelings. "Yes," she decided eventually. "It's not like I'm going to learn your trade. All the same you have skills I lack, but will need. And I think ... I will have to change somewhat to survive. I hope you have the patience to help me." Now it was her turn to smile shyly.  
  
Zhirayr murmured something into Vuk's mane. Grace couldn't catch the words, but Vuk appeared to understand them, for suddenly he looked eager and expectant. The horse nodded, whinnied, and danced a few steps forward. Zhirayr turned Vuk around and brought him back to stand alongside Mita. "How about a little race? To the rivulet down there, just before we reach the wood over there?"  
  
Grace laughed. Zhirayr was no less eager than his horse. She nodded her consent.  
  
And then she saw what he had meant. Yes, this was him, born in the saddle.

 

\----------------

 

 


	2. Physical

Vesna was right. It was his having to change her that they both shrunk away from. But knowing what bothered you didn't stop it from being bothersome. The next weeks would likely have each of them feel this uncomfortable often enough. Branislav hoped they could go for a ride every day, but time and the weatherforecast would tell.  
  
For now, however, he was relishing the simple joys of galloping down-hill on a happy horse, and a friend in hot pursuit behind him. Farther behind than he had hoped, but still holding her own.  
  
He waited for her by the little stream. She joined him, and the horses carried them home. First at a light canter, then a walk. They rubbed Vuk and Mita dry with straw. Afterwards, they walked the horses around a little longer, because Vesna had thought she'd seen a slight limp in Vuk's gait. Neither of them spotted a problem anymore, so they returned to cleaning the hooves and all the other small things which left the horses well-groomed and happy.  
  
Here in the stable, Branislav felt closer to Vesna. More at one. Obviously he was not the only one who enjoyed caring for the animals in the calm and quiet of the stable. They had worked side by side, mostly in relaxed silence. Now they were each sharing a few soft words with the horse that had carried them, before they closed up the horseboxes.  
  
Branislav winked at Vesna when he caught her gaze, then with a tiny motion of the head indicated something lay ahead. He pointed to another horse-box. As they looked in, Vesna smiled. A foal was drinking from its mother.   
  
Branislav had not given her a name yet. He preferred to get to know the foal first, before he'd find a fitting name. Mita, for example, had always been a generous creature. When you stroked him, he wanted to caress you back. That was why Branislav had chosen a name based on Demeter.   
  
Vuk, on the other hand, ... In those moments of struggling to his feet for the first time in his life, Vuk hadn't been preparing to flee, Branislav had instinctively known. Vuk had been preparing to defend his mother. His air had been that of a wolf rather than a horse. Hence the name.  
  
This one... Who knew what she would be like? Maybe she would be like her mother, Dragoslava. He had bought the steed about three years ago as a raw diamond. Her edgy energy fascinated him. He had not given her her name, but "precious glory" described the foal's mother well.   
  
Branislav looked at Vesna. They still hadn't spoken, and there still was no need. They shared a smile and turned towards the door. Branislav closed up the stable, and they went back inside. After all, Vesna still had her weight training to finish.  
  
And he, himself, had an assassination to plan.

 

\-----------------

 

Killing with a long range gun often left Branislav dissatisfied and doubly aware of how easy it was for his employer to manipulate straight shooters. Was this man really a terrorist, or just an influential dissenter?   
  
He had been fed made-up intelligence along those lines twice so far, to his knowledge. He had not made a fuss or refused to work with the agencies concerned. He had stayed in polite contact until he had been ready, and then had proceeded to expose the responsible individual in a way that could not be traced to himself. For this purpose he had, on the first occasion, picked a political enemy of the individual; one in a position somewhat higher up in the chain of command.   
  
The second time, however, it had been about kills, not just about intelligence. It had happened in a more organised fashion and with an extremely egotistic motive. So Branislav had taken less official measures. He'd much rather have let a judge and jury handle this, but in his line of business that wasn't how things worked.   
  
Twice, so far. He had been misled not once, but twice!  
  
Well, twice was perhaps not all that often, considering the sheer number of angencies he worked with. There were two or three in each of the countries he had given himself leave to work for.   
  
Still, power corrupted, and spooks sometimes held a power that was way too close to absolute power. Which, as the saying goes, corrupts absolutely. And that was the reason why Branislav kept his eyes and ears open for anything he could learn about his targets, anything he could compare to the data he had been given. Anything that helped him answer the question, "Is this man what I'm told he is?"  
  
Now he watched the alleged terrorist drop to the ground to be sure he was dead, indeed. As panic and concern began to fill the hearts of on-lookers, Branislav was already taking his gun apart and packing it up. Less than half a minute later, he had left the building he had used as his vantage point.   
  
Six hours later, he was back at home, finding peace on the back of a horse.

 

\------------------

 

Grace - _no: Vesna_ , she reminded herself - noticed that a little ritual was forming between them. She felt the Presence, left the little house, scanned the area around her and finally found Zhirayr. He beckoned to her, and   
she joined him.  
  
He always stood in a different place. Usually they went over to his workout studio, or they rode out to some lonely spot to train. But today he was leaning against a low stonewall, with his sword drawn, albeit not at the ready. He seemed lost in thought, his gaze resting on the ground. She wondered what he was planning.  
  
"Stop," he told her when she was only a few yards away. "Stay there." Still not meeting her gaze. "First, I want you to think about killing me." He let that sink in, then continued in a softer voice, "One day, you may have to do that. Embrace the idea, make it your own: we are part of the Game. Right now we are ... taking a vacation from it, but I believe one day there will be no choice left. And then I want you to be ready, and I don't want you to hold back just because I'm your teacher, your friend or whatnot. You deserve to live, so you must learn to pull all the stops. Think about it. Imagine it."   
  
Silence took over.  
  
Grace tried to imagine herself taking his head. Any head, really. The effort pulled at the corners of her soul, pulled it towards a great dark fearful pit... She began to sweat, but she forced herself to stare at him and imagine a beheading as he demanded. When it was done, she felt empty.  
  
Apparently some subtle change in her stance or stony expression had told him what had happened. In an even softer voice, he added, "And when the time comes, do it." He looked at her and smiled, his eyes serious. Then his contemplative gaze dropped to the ground again.  
  
A brief moment later, he spoke again: "Are you ready? ... Stand quite still." Bringing his sword up and between them, pushing himself off the wall and lunging forward was only one quick motion, and it brought his sword tip  far too close to her neck. Grace froze. Their eyes met. "Never underestimate your enemy's reach."

 

\----------------------

 

They were standing side by side in Branislav's private gym, which boasted a large mirror that could be folded away. Of course it would have been cheaper without the wooden panels that normally hid it, but Branislav did not enjoy watching himself, unless it was for instruction purposes.  
  
Normally, he was the one being instructed. Not so now, of course.  
  
"You are about the same height as I, Vesna. But take note of my long arms. So you must not judge my reach by my height, or you will underestimate it."  
  
Vesna nodded, looking at his mirror-image.   
  
"Now do as I do," he continued, performing the same motion as before, only without a wall to launch himself from. "Make the most of your reach."  
  
She followed suit, but he had to correct a few details, explaining why he did so. "Turn the toes this way - that makes the position more stable. Don't drop your bottom below your knee." He touched the protruding knee, silently reminding himself to keep his mind on the task. "I know this requires strength, but it's important. Dipping your behind too low costs you stability and speed." He rounded her, examining her stance, then moved behind her. He touched the toes that lay flat on the floor. "It's okay to let your weight rest on the knee, but keep your toes ready to start running. This..." He stepped on her toes with a good portion of his weight. ".... can cost you your life. - Try to get away from me."  
  
She tried valiantly, but even though he wasn't doing much, she couldn't. He made her try only for half a minute or so, before saying, "Enough. I think I've made my point."  
  
"Was I too soft?"  
  
He gave her query some thought, then answered by shaking his head. "You may lack technique, and you might stand a better chance if you were more hardened, but with this one it simply is difficult to free oneself, because one has limited strength in the back of the arms. As often, the best trick is to not let the attack happen."  
  
The question intrigued him, though.  
  
  
 **Story Fragment 11**  
  
Branislav liked to have music while he worked out. Now he smiled at the lyrics of the song. He had never paid much attention to these lines before:  
  
 _"While my arms are strong,_  
 _my heart is weak._  
 _Forgive my cheek_  
 _in believing I belong_  
 _with you."_

 

_\-----------------_

 

Zhirayr was watching as she tried to perform the hand-to-hand combat kata they had been working on all week. It made Grace nervous to know that afterwards there would be a list of corrections, even though he always kept it short. It was such a long way to go yet.  
  
A long way, for her body, mind, and heart. At the beginning of this week, her teacher had told "Vesna" that he had decided to go for a three-fold strategy: He was going to teach her open-hand katas, general sword handling technique and a fighting mind-set in parallel. In the end, they would try and bring all three together. He would first teach her to work the blade into the open-hand katas, and subsequently how to use the katas in actual fighting, when she was sufficiently prepared to start serious sparring.  
  
She was not looking forward to all this. Not the hard work, but the boredom of swinging the sword in the exact same arc time and again. The walls she needed to build around her mind and heart so she would be able to fight single-mindedly. The mind-games. Wait! She remembered something Zhiraryr had said... Oh yes, he had told her to imagine she was fighting a virus or a disease, something like along those lines. Why not try that out?   
  
With a more determined thrust she imagined she was pushing back Ebola, with a new malevolence tripping up Alzheimer's and so forth. It was ... fun. A little scary, too, but mostly fun.  
  
She looked sideways at her teacher. Was she doing it right?  
  
But apparently she had caught him off-guard, for he looked positively ashamed when he caught her eye. Maybe he had been lost in thought, forgetting to list her many mistakes in his mind. Or maybe he had been staring at her chest. The moment was gone, she couldn't tell anymore.  
  
Perhaps she ought to be feeling let down or abused or something, but she didn't. In fact, she felt protected and at home, and that was a very strange sentiment for her.


	3. Emotional

Another horse-ride was due, the horses needed it urgently. It had rained too hard the last three days for a proper ride. Today was cloudy, with the occasional drizzle, but no torrent, no high winds. And to Branislav's delight, Vesna had accepted his invitation to accompany him. As they picked their path up a pebble-ridden slope, he remarked, "You've got some reasonable stamina. I don't expect your work gave you those muscles?"  
  
"Well, a little. Helping to deliver a baby or holding down a panicking child can be hard work."   
  
There was one of the comfortable pauses that kept occurring between them. As usual, a strand of her hair had escaped and now brushed across her gentle features.  
  
A minute later, she volunteered, "I've tried swimming, jogging, Nordic Skiiing, and even dancing, but no sport has made me happy, so far, unless I had someone to entertain me." The path narrowed and he let her pass. "So every training regime fell flat after a while, as soon as I no longer had a training partner."  
  
"Or a trainer."  
  
"I never did go pro," she countered. Even her voice was beautiful. Melodious. Full of humour.  
  
"You have now. Teacher, trainer - same thing."   
  
She lifted herself out of the saddle a bit to turn and look Branislav in the eye. "No, it's not."   
  
"No?" He was amused.  
  
"Same colour, different hue, if one is lucky." She sighed, stopped Mita at a convenient widening of the path and waited for Branislav to come to her side. "You see, I've often heard from doctor friends about trainers who thought that pushing was all they needed to do. These 'experts' ruined knees and spines in the process, so ... well, the word 'trainer' is a bit of a red flag to me."  
  
Branislav  grinned. "So are you worring about your spine or your knees?" he queried and nudged Vuk forward.  
  
There was a long pause. Finally, when the path broadened again, he slowed Vuk down so Vesna could ride beside him. It was lucky Vuk and Mita were such good friends, he mused. That way he could be closer to Vesna. Close enough to talk comfortably.  
  
Vesna joined him as he had planned, and immediately asked, "Do you always ignore compliments?"  
  
"Uh..." How to respond? "Uh, no, I do it by accident. What compliment?"  
  
She shot him a sideways glance. "That I trust you to be a teacher, not a trainer."  
  
"Oh, that. I didn't realise.... It didn't sound like a compliment to me." He did not sense anger in her, but then he did not know her all that well. Maybe it was there, anyhow. "It sounded more like a barb."  
  
She looked at him, puzzled, then her eyes left him as she pondered his answer. Very likely she went back over  what had been said. At length she rejoined, "Then I'm sorry."  
  
"It's the intention that counts, not the misunderstanding." He noticed that his own voice sounded a little stiff and formal, as if he had learned those words by heart. Well, he had, but so many, many years ago that it shouldn't have sounded like this. He sighed. The sting had gone deeper than he had realised at first.  
  
Silence hung between them, but this time it wasn't comfortable. If felt like a thick cloth on a hot day, choking him.  
  
Eventually they reached a summit and had the light meal that Branislav had brought in a saddle bag. As he cut the loaf of bread and gave a slice to Vesna, he ventured, "I had intended for us to train up here. Now I doubt this is good timing."   
  
"But?" She bit into the bread, then followed it up with a bit of cured salmon.  
  
It was disarming how well she could read him. He had not intended to continue, but now he complied, "But, alas, timing is not always on our side when we are challenged by one of our kind." He sounded somewhat stiff yet again, but for a different reason. Vesna made him feel shy.  
  
He took a bite off his own bread, more to honour the tradition of breaking the bread than because he felt hungry.  
  
"What did you have in mind?" she asked between bites. "I don't think you brought swords?"  
  
He reached for the cheese and cut a slice to offer it to Vesna. "No, we'll go for open hand, and for meta fighting."  
  
"For WHAT?" She almost lost the cheese she had just accepted.  
  
"Meta fighting." He had invented that expression when he had trained a group of entrepreneurs in self-defense. It had worked well for their way of thinking. "Tactics, strategy, that sort of thing. How you take the lay of the land into consideration, how to position your opponent whenever you get the chance,... that sort of thing."  
  
"Oh." Apparently she didn't find the prospect any too attractive. "I see. Well, let's get it over with, shall we?" Then her expression changed, "Oh, I'm sorry! You haven't really eaten anything yet."   
  
And suddenly the timing was quite perfect again. Whatever anger he had felt, she had charmed him out of it with the trepidation in her soft features. He smiled, "No matter. I'm not hungry. Let's see what I can teach you." He let warmth seep into his voice to reassure her.   
  
Suddenly Vesna began to giggle uncontrollably. "Oh ... oh, dear! I get it now! Oh, dear!" She was trying to speak through giggles. "You said meta fighting, and... oh, my! There was a noise at the wrong ..." Another giggle. "At the wrong moment, and I misheard..." Yet another giggling fit overcame her. "I'm so sorry, it's just all this tension coming loose!" She took a few deep breaths. "Well, I thought you'd said, Mega Fighting." Her features twitched, but she kept the hysterics in check. "And I had the most ridiculous image in my mind ... something like two Superman figures fighting." Another deep breath to stay in control. "It was just so silly." She smiled apologetically.  
  
Unable to tap her imagination, Branislav wasn't sure why that was so funny. Vesna's mirth proved contagious, anyway, and made him chuckle along.   
  
It was strange. One misunderstanding had produced dark clouds in the sky, so to speak, and another had dissolved them. If that held any kind of foreboding, it could only be a good sign, couldn't it?

  
  
**\--------------------**

  
  
Zhirayr stood, offered her his hand like an old-fashioned gentleman. She took it and felt his sinewy strength as he pulled her up with ease. He didn't just pull her up, but also closer. Close enough to hear his lowered voice, "Please, could you call me Branislav?"  
  
"Of course," she assented without thinking at first. "Only... If I slip and do it in public, won't people find that strange?"   
  
White teeth flashed as he laughed, leaning back. "If you translate the name, they will consider it a compliment."   
  
'Vesna' nodded, puzzled. She'd have to research the name's meaning. "No doubt they already think we're an item." She thought briefly. "Alright, if I call you Branislav, you get to call me Grace."  
  
"Your true name, or preferred?"  
  
"Both." She let a coy smile play on her lips. "Just not my first name." She looked at the ground while she pondered whether or not to return the question, knowing that he had asked her for a reason. "And yours?" She met his gaze.  
  
"My first." Oh yes, there were layers and layers of emotion in his eyes. "It's the only thing I have kept from the brief time of innocence."   
  
The longing in these words resonated within her. "Innocence. One of the things one cannot buy back. Just like love and mortality." She sighed. "Is that way you hesitate to teach me? I can tell you are not giving it your all."  
  
Green-brown eyes pierced her. "You are a healer. I am a killer. And here you are, asking to be like me."   
  
"The healer wants to stay alive."  
  
He sounded raspier now, pained and parched. "And the killer is being foolish." A new resolve entered his features. "You are right. I should drive you harder." Then he grinned all of a sudden. "Yes, I know how that sounds." He laughed. "Let's do something. - When was the last time you danced?" Now he looked decidedly boyish, despite the weather-worn face and some stubble shading his jaw.  
  
He took her hand again, then the other as well. She did not resist, wondering what he had in mind. She felt the dry skin, the strength in his fingers, but also how gingerly he touched her. He stepped back, cha-cha-stlye, and both their arms stretched out naturally between them. He pulled her hands apart, and just as naturally, they stood nose to nose. Breaking the rhythm, he stopped moving and let his eyes search hers.  
  
Then he brushed the intensity of the moment aside by stating, "And now we'll use that as an open hand technique. With a few changes. First of all, you lead, I follow." His smile took the edge off the challenge.  
  
A nervous flutter tickled her lungs. "I'll try."  
  
"You don't need to try, you need to DO."   
  
  
  
**\------------------**

  
  
Branislav watched. The low-roofed house was quiet and dark, apart from a tiny night-light by the stair-case.   
It was nearing 3 a.m., and all was silent. Dark clouds covered the moon every so often. When a large one eclipsed the Earth's companion again, Branislav crept out from his leafy hiding place and approached the house.  
  
He stopped involuntarily. The Presence of an Immortal was not unexpected, but it had hit him like wall slammed into his face. As he calmed his nerves, his inflated perception of the Presence shrunk back to normal proportions. Yes, this one was clearly older than himself, but the vibe was not so immense as it had seemed at first. Nothing that belied his expectations.   
  
The light of the moon returned only for a few moments, then it was dimmed again.  
  
Branislav flitted from a bush to a tree, over to a shed. He had been doing this for so many years, it no longer took a conscious effort to slow his breath, make it more shallow, and near-silent, as he waited in the dark shadows. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the night and feeling for the Presence.  
  
Grace's features filled his mind. He smiled. Soon he'd have to pay her a visit much like this one. It would be interesting to see her reaction. Would she come out with her sword drawn as he had repeatedly advised her?  
  
A gust of wind interrupted his musings. Was it time now, at last?  
  
For a split-second he thought the moon had again left its hiding place, but it was lightning that lit the sky several miles off to Branislav's left. He counted the seconds. Soon.  
  
A reverberating rumble rolled - the mountains threw back a low echo, barely audible over the wind rustling in the trees. Meanwhile, the temperature had dropped some more, but Branislav barely felt it. He had come well-prepared. Soon, very soon.  
  
After three more lightning bolts, more and more closely followed by thunder claps, the rain finally set in. Branislav began to inch closer to the main building. The house was old and made of stone, it would likely be just like all the other old houses with their traditional lay-out. And if not that, he'd just follow his Immortal instincs and go for the Presence he could feel at all times.  
  
He had just rolled into the shadowy space between two tough and rather thorny bushes, when another lightning sent a flash of white light across the lawn. The thunder following three seconds later sounded like a mountain crashing down onto another. Three more now.  
  
Another lit sky, another mountain crashing down. Branislav jump-rolled and flattened himself against a tree. Now he was so close he could almost touch the window.  
  
During the next lightning, he looked out for any guards, but he saw none. That was, of course, why he had decided to coordinate the attack with the thunderstorm. Most likely, the guards would be inside.  
  
Another lightning, still no guards within sight. While thunder cracked down like a giant whip lashing through the air, the Immortal slipped beneath the window. He slipped the specially designed thermal imager in place, which covered only one eye. Next, the gas mask. That was the part he hated most.   
  
Almost there.  
  
Another lightning turning night into day for a split-second.   
  
The eighth thunder, their attack signal. Four windows broke, chemicals did their work -- man-made lightning, a disgusting stench and thick fog filled the rooms -- and turned dangerous kidnappers into disoriented, coughing and cursing bundles.  
  
Four dark shadows slipped into the four rooms as clouds again clashed noisily outside. Briefly, he could hear something hard roll across the floor somewhere in the back of the house, then a hissing sound, and another room filled with foul-smelling fog. Once they were inside, of course, they gave the light-bomb a miss.   
  
A few shouts and some dispersing of the greyish mist later, they had arranged the kidnappers neatly in a row, bound by rope, guarded by Branislav's capable men. Branislav nodded at them and wordlessly went off, guided by the Immortal Presence. By now he realised it came from beneath the floor. There had to be a cellar door somewhere.  
  
They had cleverly hidden the trap door beneath a sofa, but since Branislav knew what he was looking for, this did not delay him much longer. It was admittely satisfying to see the amused leer die on the features of the leader of those thugs.  
  
Branislav didn't bother with the rungs let into a stone-wall. Nobody was close enough to get injured by his jumping down, and the rat he'd spotted a moment ago wasn't going to wait around, surely. He lowered himself down some way, then dropped onto the stone floor. Nice and even, luckily.  
  
The other Immortal was very close now, probably just around a corner or behind a wall.  
  
In a fairly low voice, Branislav uttered a few choice words in old-fashioned Turkish, complaining of the trouble he had had coming here when waiting would have been just as effective, all things considered. The other erupted in laughter, then recovered enough to answer, "Come, brother, free me of the chains and take me to the Hamam, and I shall repay you with stories and joys of all kinds."  
  
Grinning, Branislav shook his head at his friend's unwaveringly good spirits and humour, and went on to do just that.   
  
The next few days were spent in a much more pleasant fashion, and at the expense of the Embassy for which his friend worked these days, so in a way, he kept word. For once, Branislav had been given an assignment that not only caused no qualms, but proved thoroughly enjoyable.  
  
  
  
 **\-------------------**

 **  
  
**"Okay", Branislav nodded, "let's end our little excursion into boxing here. I think you know now what a southpaw is, a jab, and a hook, and for the moment that will do."  
  
Grace breathed her relief. She hadn't much enjoyed this brutal routine of trying to hit the sandbag in different ways. There were so many more useful ways of skinning one's fingers and endangering 16 joints at ... - No, she must not think that way! Fighting would keep her useful, so indirectly it was useful, too.  
  
"And now," the short sinewy Immortal continued to her dismay, "we'll work on your punches." She could tell he was not satisfied with her efforts of the past two hours, but he remained calm and polite. Maybe it wasn't worse than stitching. She'd learned that from a quick-tempered dragon... Oops, apparently he'd continued without her noticing: "... not about technique, so just try to hit me straight and square on the jaw any old how."  
  
"I beg your pardon? Why you, not the sandbag?"  
  
"You need to know what it feels like in a real fight." There was a twinkle of mirth in his eye. "Also, if my jaw breaks, it will mend, and the sandbag won't. I don't want to have to get another. Come on, hit me."  
  
It was just like that day they had stood by the low wall and he had forced her to imagine killing him. Everything inside her screamed "No!" Of course that was just the point. _Harden your heart,_ she told herself.  
  
She took a deep breath. Another. And hit.  
  
Branislav laughed. "Good, nice breeze, keep it coming." Was he taunting her? Well, alas, that didn't work, it just made her want to laugh, too.  
  
She hit again, but she could feel it was even weaker than the last attempt.  
  
Branislav took her wrists, lightly holding each between two fingers, and stepped a little closer. "Here's what I want you to do: Hit my chin with these" -- he lifted her right hand and dropped the other to touch the knuckles of index and middle finger  -- "so hard that you'll break my skull against the wall back there. Got that?"  
  
"You're insane."  
  
"No, I'm a killer teaching you how to kill. Stroking my chin won't kill me, unless you have contact poison on your fingers."  
  
"It's not physically possible to fling you back there with..."  
  
He interjected quickly, "I know, but that's not the point. Keep the image in your mind, and you'll do it right."  
  
"Oh." Grace felt ashamed and rather stupid. "I'm sorry..." She didn't know how to go on.  
  
"Don't worry, you're out of your depth, I realise that. There is a lot of psychology to fighting, and you have clearly never plunged into it enough to understand any of it. You're suffering a bout of xenophobia." He seemed to find that really funny, but politely he didn't show it. Grace sighed.  
  
"I feel so ... ineffective."  
  
"Go back to imagining that you are actually hitting a virus. It works quite well most of the times, if I understood you correctly."  
  
Grace nodded, got back into her fighting stance and tried to see herself smashing a single enlarged Anthrax virus over there on the wall some three yards away. It was hard to do, even technically, but she felt ready. Her concentration on the imaginary virus, she tighted her fist and her arm muscles and released her anger along with the the motion. She lunged too far and toppled over, falling beside her grunting teacher.  
  
She turned and looked at him. Something about him looked strained. Wrong. Oh! Ow, the jaw had been dislocated!   
  
Even with his cooperation it took her three tries before the jaw was back it its original position. Now it was her turn to politely suppress her laughter, as Branislav gave her both a very unhappy look and a thumbs-up.   
  
She got up, offered him her hand and pulled him up. "Come on, let's do something about that pain. No need to suffer just because you're Immortal." She left her hand in his and simply pulled him out of the dratted gym. Clearly he was still in quite some pain, for he remained silent and meekly came along.

 

\----------------


	4. Flashback I: Ottoman Empire, around 1600

Horses were fine, training and fighting was fine, brothers were fine. Yet Branislav - or Alp Gamze, as his Janissary brethren knew him as - felt that something was missing in his life. He wasn't sure what it was, but in a way he hoped it wasn't the family he had lost, for that loss was eternal. Nothing could bring back the lost time he could have spent with his parents and sister. Nothing could bring his sister back to life, no measure of love or revenge, no amount of sadness or prayer.

He had avenged her - one life for one life. It had felt right, but he had still felt that something was missing. Luckily his death and resurrection had gone virtually unnoticed. He had stayed with his parents until they died, but the hollow feeling had stayed.

His return to his Janissary brothers hadn't mitigated the feeling, either. To the contrary, now that the Janissaries became more and more corrupt, arrogant and useless, he felt even more uprooted.

He doubted that the Sultan was right when he had guessed his problem to be lack of female company. The Sultan had ordered him to marry. It was all the same to him, so he had just bowed his head in deference. What did it matter?

\-------------


	5. Chapter 5

"That does feel better", Branislav conceded. "Still, there was no need. I can deal with pain - and with not being able to speak. Don't you feel you are wasting the pain killer on me?" He looked deep into those caramel-brown eyes, trying to find an edge in the softness of her soul.  
  
"No, why? The doctor may turn up rarely, but pharmaceuticals are not outside our reach here." Grace was a rational thinker. And devastatingly sweet.   
  
"Well, no, of course not." He gave her a lopsided grin. "Except when the mailman is too drunk to make it up here."  
  
"A lost soul, isn't he? No talking-to would ... never mind." She seemed lost in thought.  
  
"Not a lost soul. A soul destro yed by loss. Either way, a lost case, yes. At least for now." He didn't see much hope, but he wanted to give her what hope he had to offer. She appeared to need it.  
  
Grace smiled sadly. "It would take a small miracle." Then she looked at Branislav. "Let's talk about something else, shall we?"  
  
"Well, there is still that bacterium or whatnot waiting to be beaten up in my gym."  
  
She sighed. "And are you going to stand in its place again?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Why? I thought you had the sandbags for a reason?"  
  
"The sandbag cannot tell you the same things I can. It does not have the same edges a human body has. And..." Darn, he just could not help grinning anymore. "And it does not get off on getting beaten up by you." Her scandalized look was a hoot.

 

\--------------------

 

 


	6. Flashback II: Ottoman Empire, around 1600

Branislav was riding home. Well, the outer building of the Sultan's palace could not be called home in the strictest sense, but he had spent so much time there, that it felt like home. He was tired and dirty and longed to remedy either in the Hamam kiosk.

However, upon entering he was ushered to one of the Sultan's personal assistants. Branislav bowed and inquired how he might be of service.

"We have found a bride for you. Very good standing and all that. The parents seem to value the closeness of the Janissaries to the Sultan so much that they want her to marry you.  
"We will arrange everything with the parents. The Sultan is sure you will bow to his wishes. I expect he is correct?"

"Of course, with gratitude."

"Good, good, quite proper. You may go." The man seemed to find his task distasteful, for one reason or another. Branislav did not care.

He went up the stairs, around a few corners and through some corridors, until he finally found the beautiful private Hamam. He was undressing, when realisation took root. One shoe on, one off, he stood motionless and stared at the small blue and white tiles arranged in ornate patterns.

Then he let out a long sigh, muttered to himself "Poor girl," and finished undressing. It could not be helped. One couldn't just go to the Sultan and say, "I know it is a highly unusual request, but could I speak to my possible bride first?" That sort of thing wasn't done, much less so in the royal household. Besides, what could he possibly tell her? That he was Immortal? That he could not father children? Neither would sound believable. He could only prove the former, and where would that get him? No, there was no escape, unless he wanted to leave the realm. It was the girl's lookout to have no children, and he could do nothing about it.


	7. 2.34 am

Grace had woken with a start, feeling an Immortal Presence. The alarm clock said 2.34 AM. She was sure it was Branislav. And yet... in the middle of the night?

Grace was not given to panicking, but fear clung to her heart, nevertheless. Her mind was racing, and just like cars on a racing track, it kept returning to the same landmark thoughts, over and over: She could run or stay. Running meant a very dangerous moment of leaving through either the door or a window. Staying meant feeling trapped, no matter how often Branislav had told her that knowing where everything was put her at an advantage. Most Immortal students turned to their teachers in moments like this. However, how could she do that? She was far too old not to defend herself. Trying to get him to fight in her stead wasn't fair, for several reasons at once. So she was stuck here. And she could run or stay...

The other Immortal's (hopefully not Immortals'?) presence was so strong now that she could ne longer tell whether they were coming closer. Waiting was nerve-wrecking. Sitting around was even worse, though She needed to DO something. So, she made a bit of space within what passed as her living-room, and started to do some of the sword-swinging exercises her teacher has shown her this morning.

\------------------

Branislav sat in Grace's back garden, propped against the stone wall of her abode. He was munching a sandwich and taking an occasional sip from the tea flask he had brought. After waiting for another hour or so, he packed up, put his helmet on and gingerly climbed up the stone wall. The ground level here at the back was higher than in front, so the window was not as high up. He peeked in and found Grace swinging her sword in circles left and right of her body. He grinned. He waited a bit longer, then knocked.

Grace came over and opened the window. It opened outward, so he had to duck. As he faced her again, he grinned, winked at her, told her "Well done, Grace," jumped down and with a wave went on to go home. However, Grace called out, "Wait!"

He turned to meet her gaze, but she was gone from the window. Lights went on, and the back door was thrown open. He went down the stone steps which led to the low door.

"Please, come in."

Something in his stomack fluttered.


	8. Flashback III: Ottoman Empire, around 1600

Everthing had been arranged. Branislav had already spoken to his future father and brothers in law a few times. He had learned that one of their ancestors had been with the Janissaries, too, which was part of why they valued Alp Gamze and his Janissary brethren. Independent of that, though, he began to like his future-in-laws for the men they were. He enjoyed their intelligence, their kindness and their open minds.

So now, the day before the wedding, Branislav - currently known as Alp Gamze - was actually looking forward to marrying, if mostly for the fact that he was gaining a new family.

While he was laying out his clothes for the wedding day, he looked out of the window, wondering what the weather would be like tomorrow. With some surprise he noticed Öktem, his bride's oldest brother, striding purposefully through the entrance. Branislav hurried to meet him.

"My friend, be welcome! Are you looking for me? What brings you here?"  
"Alp, friend!" Öktem took both his hands in his, aptly symbolising the growing friendship between them. "I beg of you, could you kindly come and see my father. He has to tell you something..." - he lowered his voice to a whisper - "... quite embarrassing for him." In his normal voice Öktem continued, "Please do us the generous favour of coming to hear him."

Branislav was more than puzzled. He agreed readily and they both hurried off to meet the bride's father at his home. What could it be? Financial difficulties? Political scandal? A curse regarding the wedding uttered by some jealous admirer? What could possibly befall an esteemed family man? Or had someone pointed out that Alp Gamze was only a minor Janissary and not worthy of their beautiful daughter?

Dindar Dinçer was standing in the garden in front of his house, and when they arrived, he seemed about to join them at a run. The younger men rushed to his side. The unusually formal greeting bespoke humility rather than hostility to Branislav, and alleviated his puzzlement in no way. Soon enough, however, Dindar Dinçer ushered him inside, "Alp Gamze, please give me the pleasure of being my guest. Let us have some tea together." He gave his oldest son a tight smile. "Öktem, make sure nobody disturbs us for a while."

Branislav was led into a small private room, most likely Dindar Dinçer's own room. Two large cushions had been laid on the floor is a somewhat cramped arrangement. But before they reached them, the noble and influential Dindar Dinçer, of all people, fell on his knees in front of the man he knew as Alp Gamze. "My dear gifted friend, a great sadness has befallen me since I learned today what I must tell you now. I beg of you that you believe me that I did not know of this until this morning, and also that my daughter..." His voice cracked and he was crying.

Branislav was shocked to see this man, whom he had come to value so much, break down and cry like a child. It took him a while to regain his composure. "Ezgi is no longer a virgin. She was ..." He bit his lip, apparently to stop himself from weeping again. "She was taken against her will." He clearly wanted to say more, but he was fighting the tears so hard that he couldn't.

Branislav simply hugged him. "Worry no longer. Your family and I will keep this secret. I will marry Ezgi tomorrow, and I will make sure she will never feel such pain again." Branislav looked deep into the man's eyes and let him see his willpower. "Now please, father, please make yourself comfortable." He smiled. He led Dindar Dinçer to the far cushion and made sure he sat comfortably. Then he said, "And now it is time for ME to kneel," and he did so. "I, too, have a confession to make, but mine has been heavy on my conscience since the Sultan chose Ezgi for me." He lowered his head further for a moment. "Please." He raised his head and met his future father-in-law's confused gaze. "Forgive me for not telling you this earlier: I cannot father children. It is ... a curse that I cannot rid of. Will you accept me as your son, even so?"

The elder man looked at him with shrewd eyes. "Did you just invent this to make me feel the better, Alp Gamze?"

Branislav laughed. "Oh, my esteemed father, I wish it were so. Yet it is the truth: sadly, I cannot give you grandchildren."

"Then you are both touched by a cruel fate. I hope this bodes well for the two of you, for I love you both well."

\-----------


	9. Final

Branislav gave the horse free reign, revelling in the power of the creature gallopping beneath him. This was the nearest thing to freedom that they both knew. It wasn't the speed, it wasn't the wind. It was not holding back.   
  
The Janissaries had been trained to shoot arrows on horseback during gallop. No matter what people outside the Janissary army believed, this had never really been at full, all-out gallop, though. The horse had always had to hold back a little, the rider had had to exert control the whole time. Right now, however, Branislav was able to let go and trust his horse the same way he trusted his own body to do things right. And that made all the difference in the world.  
  
Besides, there was the freedom of thought. Being free of things going through his head. One overthought things too often, anyway. The bliss of worries not haunting one for a while... On horseback, Branislav could let his true colours fly.

 

\------------------------

 

Grace sighed. Of course it had been her own choice to go and find herself a teacher and all that... but there were times when she wholeheartedly regretted the decision. The violence of the Game had always seemed singularly senseless to her.  
  
Her fist thumped into the sandbag. Booooooring!   
  
Branislav had gone away for a few days again, as he did every two or three weeks. He didn't talk about it, he just told her he had to leave "on business", and that was it. Sometimes he came back pensive, brooding, or plain unhappy. It was a subtle change in his stance that spoke volumes to her, while he took pains to be his usual polite self and betray none of what bothered him. And sometimes it wasn't even his posture, but Grace could tell by the reaction of the horses that something was up.   
  
After having watched these ups and downs for some weeks, this time she had told Branislav when he came to say good-bye, "You don't enjoy your job, I can see that. You don't have to hide that, you know?"  
  
"Because it makes me less of a murderous psycho?" There was a hurt beneath the humour, but protective layers of condescension and ... something less easily describable obscured it.   
  
"No. Because I'm a good listener."  
  
He nodded. "That's exactly what I'm scared of." He had let her see the fear in his eyes for just a moment, then had bowed slightly and left.  
  
They had not spoken since then. Now Grace felt in limbo, left to a boredom that was all the greater because Branislav wasn't there.  
  
* _thump ... thump ... thump-thump-thump-thump-THUMP_ *  
She kicked the sandbag and watched it swing back and forth. Oddly, it was the voice of her stitching teacher that she suddenly heard in her head: _"Impatience is beneath a lady. We are not impatient, and we do not let ourselves be distracted. We complete the task with dignity and care. Is that understood?"_  
  
Grace shook her head and sighed. Fine. She took up the methodical pattern again: left punch, right punch, left hook, right elbow-check, knee in the kidney region,...   
  
  
\---------------------  
  
  
The whole wodden wall trembled with the impact, as Branislav was thrown against it. The guard attacking him wore an arrogant expression that went well with his being a teensy bit sloppy in controlling his prey. It was enough of an opening for Branislav, who had trained for fighting practically all of his unnaturally long life.  
  
A broken finger, a tight lever and a forceful leg sweep later, he had the guard face-down and immobile on the floor. After stuffing a handkerchief into his mouth, he applied one of his littly syringes and watched it take effect quickly. Finally, he breathed again. He listened. Having solved the immediate problem, he was well aware that this had been a bit too noisy to go unnoticed. Time for Plan C.  
  
  
\---------------------  
  
  
Branislav had been away longer this time, and on his return had met Grace only for a brief, focused lesson. It was as though he were still gone, inside. He had taught her slow, graceful motions which she thought belonged to Kung Fu or Tai Chi. Naturally she had liked them far better than the boxing they had done of late. So the lesson could actually have been really enjoyable, had he not been so impersonal, so aloof. Like a disinterested stranger.  
  
He had declined her offer to have him over for lunch and instead had left almost immediately. She wondered whether he had been running from her, or there was something he urgently needed to attend to. It didn't look like the latter to her, though. It couldn't be the horses, at any rate, for she had paid them a visit this morning, and they had all been fine.  
  
Oh well, it wasn't as if she had a right to his being attentive and interested in her. It was just ... This was untypical, worrying, and sad.  
  
  
\--------------------  
  
  
Branislav knocked on the door. It was the polite thing to do, after all, even if this was his own gym. He had spent a lot of time in the stable to calm and center himself. He had watched his steed Dragoslava care for her foal, whom he had recently named Nemanja because of his stubborn nature and noble descent. After a while he had entered - slowly and carefully, of course, for Dragoslava had not yet given her consent.   
  
It took a while, but at length Dragoslava had allowed him to caress her son - also thanks to the carrots he had brought. He spent another hour in her stable-box, until he noticed that Vuk and Mita and even the rather anti-social mule Groy were growing jealous. After the extra hour of tending to those three, he felt even more at peace, and ready to face Grace again.  
  
So here he was, knocking on the door he had planed and mounted here himself...  
  
Grace opened, her face aflush, and took up fighting stance with a grin on her beautiful features. However, when she saw his expression, the grin dissolved. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Grace, I will have to find you another teacher. I have fallen too hard for you." His eyes searched her face, but ... nothing. She was still processing. Then: "Wait a moment, start at the beginning."  
  
His shoes were dirty, he noticed.  
  
"Branislav?" Her voice was molten honey.  
  
He sighed and looked up at her again. "I'm not driving you as hard as I should. I'm pampering you, and not for your sake, but for my own." He looked out through the window, at the sparse landscape. "I've hampered your progress so we'd have more time to spend together."  
  
"I liked that," she stated quietly.  
  
He smiled, but avoided her eyes. "You came here to be taught, not to be spoiled."  
  
"Fair enough, but I liked it," she insisted, mellow-voiced.  
  
It was windy outside - he watched the bushes outside bend and shake. "You won't like it when somebody comes for you."  
  
"So you decided I have to leave?" That sounded like tears. He looked at her and found her valiantly trying to suppress her emotions.  
  
He took her in his arms. "That is not what I said. I'd be happy to keep spoiling you - but someone else should do the teaching part." He caressed her face, then on the spur of the moment went down on a knee. "Grace, will you stay with me?"  
  
The laughter of relief tinkled in her voice, as she consented. "But be warned, you'll get spoiled, too."


	10. Additional: Background Info

## An Immortal: Zhirayr Garegin Petrosyan

**current name**  
Zhirayr Garegin Petrosyan

**aka** Branislav Petrovic (original name), André Martine, Vittorio Porcello, Branko Peterka, Alp Gamze [last name unknown - correction: there were no last names in the Ottoman Empire], Altan Kartal

 

**Assigned Watcher:** **Harold Bertram Merryweather** ****  
aged 32, speaks Turkish (Turkish mother), Yiddish, Russian (grandfather on the father's side was a Russian Jew) and an Armenian dialect (through his grandmother), joined the Watchers while serving in the UN troops in the same area as Petrosyan; Merryweather grew up first in Turkey, then moved to Wales in his teens, when his father was offered a job there as a shoemaker. Merryweather joined the UN troops after failing at school, probably because the transition had not gone well. Petrosyan took him a little under his wing when they met during a training camp in Scotland.

**Known history**  
born in 1503 in Turkey (area which today is Serbia), then kidnapped and raised by Janissaries; For more than a century, he kept in contact with the Osman army and the royal household. It is strongly suspected that some people high up in the hierarchy there knew and kept his secret. He was readmitted into the Janissary corps whenever he wished, it seems in retrospect (same name recurs in Janissary salary lists). For the next two centuries, last mention as part of the Janissary corps in 1620.  
first identified in 1545 in Turkey (Serbia), where he returned often during the first 170 years. This changed abruptly, reason unknown.  
disappeared in 1712, rediscovered around 1820 as head of security at Turkish Embassy (then in maison 11, rue la Planche) in Paris, killed while protecting the ambassador's affair, hushed it up with help of Martine Desmarais, who afterwards was recruited as his Watcher.  
Returned to and may be connected to the abolishment of the Janissary corps in 1826 (listed in salary lists both as Janissary and personal spy of the Ottoman Sultan).

**Professions**  
His ****professions appear to oscillate between soldier (infantry or light cavalry), personal security, assassin, courier in dangerous areas and spy, always for some government, never in the private sector. When another profession is required as a cover, he often makes use of his special riding and archery skills, posing as an entertainer and street performer, self defense teacher or the like, sometimes as a “horse masseur”. (Shows horses great respect, but dislikes dogs, so vet probably no option.) However, he has also been seen to take on the guise of a low servant, farmer or market vendor.

**Nationality**  
originally Turkish Serb, currently: Armenian

**mortal parents/caregivers**  
first: Petar & Zora „Baba“ Petrovic a Christian couple with five further children, then „recruited“ (forcibly taken as a young boy; his sister was injured in the process and died subsequently) and raised by the Yeñiçeri Ocaġı (Janissaries, a part of the Ottoman Turkish army)

**turned Immortal**  
at age 38;  
after release from Ottoman Turkish army, he returned to his home to visit family, learned of his sister’s death and went off to find and kill the raider who had caused her to die. He succeeded, but was killed in the process. 

**physical description:**  
fairly short, sinewy, green-brown eyes, dark brown hair

**character traits:**  
honourable, by-the-book, loyal, cunning and ruthless in his duty; not a nationalist, but very protective of his home-country and ambivalent regarding Turkey. Oddly protective of children, given his professions (see microfiches of contracts), but does not seek their attention or proximity. Loner, stand-offish, no known partner, sexuality unclear (some data suggest bisexuality). 

**Hobbies**  
juggling, bouldering, extended lone Nordic walking and ski tours in the mountains, also recreational travels with a strong cultural aspect, reading and taking courses: takes one course in a seemingly random subject every semester (currently Ikebana).

 

**survival chances:**  
good;   
strong archery and shooting skills, outstandingly athletic; lives in rural Armenia, well integrated into a local community whose members are very protective of each other; he has lived there so long that very likely his secret is known or guessed at. Well adapted to the 20th century (has been acquiring computer hacking skills, owns and flies helicopters,…)  
It is thought that he is not going to be the One, but will survive the better part of the Gathering.

 

**current location**

________ a small Armenian village near Khor Virap State Sanctuary, close to the Turkish border

 

 

**_ Related links (in German) _ **   
<https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osmanisches_Reich>   
<http://www.wissen.de/video/die-osmanische-armee-kampf-mit-pfeil-und-bogen>   
<https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Janitscharen>   
<https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liste_osmanischer_Titel>   
<https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liste_t%C3%BCrkischer_Vornamen#D.E2.80.93G>   
[http://laytmotif.de/nachnamen-soyadi/](http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Flaytmotif.de%2Fnachnamen-soyadi%2F&h=mAQEMcuS0&s=1)   
[http://www.zeitenblicke.de/2005/3/Demel](http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.zeitenblicke.de%2F2005%2F3%2FDemel&h=LAQEqHkXo&s=1)   
[http://www.tuerkenbeute.de/kun/kun_leb/Topkapi_de.php](http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.tuerkenbeute.de%2Fkun%2Fkun_leb%2FTopkapi_de.php&h=-AQEGevq6&s=1)   
[http://www.osmanische-frauen.de/](http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.osmanische-frauen.de%2F&h=sAQFJ6vQt&s=1)   
[http://www.turkischegemeinde.at/index.php?id=71](http://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.turkischegemeinde.at%2Findex.php%3Fid%3D71&h=aAQFLO1Ek&s=1)


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